


Dinobots: Why?

by 12drakon



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Fluff, Galumphing, Gen, Learning to love different alt forms, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-23
Updated: 2016-07-23
Packaged: 2018-07-26 05:43:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7562578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/12drakon/pseuds/12drakon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wheeljack and Ratchet watch their creations at play. The five Dinobots chase one another, roughhouse - have exuberant fun. Wheeljack can't help his wide happy grin or the warmth in his spark, and realizes he used to reserve his warm and fuzzy feelings for car-formers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dinobots: Why?

**Author's Note:**

> Big thanks to [dragonofdispair](http://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonofdispair/works), [FHS_Lynn](http://archiveofourown.org/users/FHC_Lynn/pseuds/FHC_Lynn/works), [Rizobact](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Rizobact/pseuds/Rizobact/works), and K. for discussions and beta. The writing challenge was to feature a faction or a group you never write.

“Ratchet, I wonder why…” Wheeljack began.

The stampede swerved closer. He and the medic jumped back to avoid being swept into the messy giggling pile of chubby paws, spiky tails, and an occasional wing.

“Ha, that’s one way to _transform and roll out_ ,” Ratchet laughed, pointing at Sludge.

“I knew his tail tucked under, but the neck?” Laughing with his friend, Wheeljack felt his helm panels lighting up, to color him impressed. “Remember how it took you the whole day to recalibrate his vertebral constrictors? Amazing! Tail, paws, neck, everything just folds into that, that…”

“Lobbing ball,” Ratchet supplied: both the shape, and the general purpose.

“Yes! Look, the Dinobots are rolling Sludge around - so cute!” It warmed the engineer’s spark to watch; but saying this out loud also made his helm panels feel warmer, and he checked if Ratchet noticed, or shared, his embarrassment.

But the medic only had optics for their young creations, though he did answer, “Cute, and safer in a battle. Sludge is mostly a melee range fighter. If he rolls into the ‘Cons this way” - he pointed; the Sludge-ball crashed into Grimlock, toppling the tyrannosaurus, whose mighty roar dissolved into helpless giggles - “I won’t have to repair any head wounds from blaster fire.”

Wheeljack whistled appreciatively. This applied point of view gave at least a partial answer to his yet-unasked ‘why’. The newest additions to the Autobot ranks still looked like a mess of young organic critters from one of those Earth documentaries that Beachcomber the goofy animal-lover and Hound his buddy kept watching in the common room. Wheeljack had never understood the attraction.

Swoop the flier was clinging to the spinal plates of Snarl (making Wheeljack glad those were both heavily armored and low on sensors), as if the stegosaurus sprouted a pair of spiny wings. Snarl jumped and jumped - boing boing boing! - but failed to dislodge his brother. The exuberant galumphing was cute (Why? Whyyy?) - and also…

“Check it out, Ratch. Swoop’s too light to carry Snarl, but the jumps are much higher and longer with the power assist. Good for covering rough terrain.”

“Yip,” Ratchet nodded. “Pah! Flying’s just a long controlled jump.”

They watched Slag’s massive horns safely pinning Grimlock’s neck to the ground, while Sludge tickled his flailing hind paws.

Ratchet’s disdain for flight reminded Wheeljack of his embarrassing attraction, and he blurted, “Why, Ratchet? Why is this” - he waved his hand at the Dinobots, now once again combined into an indistinct salad of red-yellow-gray paws-tails-wings - “this animal mess _fun_ to watch?”

‘Fun’ was an understatement, a cover-up for the flood of feelings. For the tender, spark-deep joy, the platonic urge to cuddle the dear creatures, the inescapable goofy broad smile Wheeljack’s been hiding under his battle mask.

Ratchet, always the perceptive one, gave him a knowing look and a gentle one-armed hug (so as to avoid turning his back to the playing mechs, in case they rolled too close again).

“You know that feeling,” the medic said slowly, as if pondering, “when you watch the guys play around the wild roads, chase one another, race? Jazz, Bee, Sunny?”

Wheeljack nodded, “I know. Your hydraulics tense and your wires tingle and your wheels spin a bit, even in the base form.” His door wings trembled sympathetically just imagining that, and Ratchet patted one. “But Ratch, the Dinobots, they, they don’t even _have_ wheels! Or thrusters, or anything - _they are not even vehicles!_ ” This was an obvious statement, but at the same time, somehow wrong. Not a nice thing to say about a mech, about a fellow Autobot. Wheeljack hurried to explain, “I am fine with all shapes, I mean, Blaster’s cassettes are Autobots like us, I never…”

Ratchet stopped him with a raised hand. “You are not against any alt-modes. I get it, I believe you - but you’ve always felt closer to car-formers than to fliers, right?” Wheeljack nodded, and Ratchet continued, his quiet thoughtful voice barely heard over the laugher, clanging, and roars of the Dinobots. “Non-vehicles have never made your wires tingle and your wheels spin, eh?”

Wheeljack nodded again. He was still smiling broadly under his mask - he couldn’t help it, watching the young mechs play - but he felt uneasy about the topic. He wanted to accept all sentient beings, no matter the shape. He thought he always had! He’d never realized how his frame, his own alt mode had applied hidden brakes to what mechs he could like.

“We made them, Jackie,” said Ratchet simply. He pointed at their creations, his hand compelled to little petting motions. “You know the Dinobots’ every gear and strut. That helps you to notice, to pay attention to every little thing. How Swoop’s wings articulate when he strains to lift Snarl. How compact Sludge’s shape is when he rolls into a ball. Horns and tails, these alien things, they just make sense to you now.”

They watched for a long while yet, still hugging but not speaking, smiling and occasionally laughing. Sharing that warm feeling of watching other mechs - other mechs one _understood_ \- at joyful exuberant play.

Then Ratchet squeezed Wheeljack’s shoulder: time to go, he knew, time for a meeting to attend. Reluctantly, he turned away from these mechs that he was learning to love - whose kind he was learning to love.

As if echoing his thoughts, Ratchet muttered, “Love is measured in the hours of attention.”


End file.
